CHAPTER 1
The King of Varros had arrived.
The approach of the carriage in the streets below had warned her, along with the rustle of frantic movement in the hall outside the chamber, the raised voices, the hastening footsteps. She hadn’t expected him.
Not now. Not today. Not yet.
“Perdition,” Tansy swore, then added another vicious Boritanian oath for good measure as she plumped the pillows beneath the counterpane on the princess’s bed, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow.
She didn’t want to see the king without Princess Anastasia acting as a necessary barrier. But it would seem, like much of her life, Tansy didn’t have a choice in the matter.
For in that moment, the door opened to admithim.
She moved away from the bed instantly, as if the empty piece of furniture had singed her hand, guilt warring with trepidation within her.
King Maximilian was obscenely tall and broad, seeming to take up half the chamber with his entrance. His size, in this instance, was fortuitous, as it meant the guard in the hall couldn’t spy the empty bed in which the princess was meantto be reclining as an invalid, nor the pillows that were a poor imitation of her feminine form.
The door clicked closed, and Tansy watched as the king raised a massive paw to latch it in place, trapping her with him.
Alone.
He turned to her slowly, his brown eyes dark and unreadable, mouth grim and unsmiling. “You’ve a vicious tongue, Lady Tansy.”
His English bore the traces of a Varrosian accent but was otherwise flawless.
Sweet Deus above, had he heard her cursing? How? She had been muttering to herself, not shouting. Tansy felt light-headed at the prospect, knowing full well that he could punish her for daring to utter such an oath in the presence of the king.
Belatedly, she remembered herself, dipping into a curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
“Repeat it,” he ordered curtly.
Tansy had just straightened to her full height, which wasn’t considerable under any circumstances, and most certainly not when in the presence of King Maximilian, who towered over her as mightily as any mountain. But she dipped again, offering him a protracted curtsy, making extra effort.
“Your Majesty,” she said.
“Not that.” He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. “What came before it.”
Curse the devil. Hehadheard. She didn’t dare repeat the Boritanian oath. Literally translated to English, it meantMay God rot your cock.
Decidedly not the sort of thing one said to a king, particularly one as menacing and imposing as the monarch before her.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” she offered, bowing her head in a show of humility that she hoped would appease him. “I said nothing else.”
He had drawn nearer. Soundlessly, which was impressive for a man so large in stature. With her head bowed, she saw the perfectly gleaming black boots—as immense as every other part of him—a mere foot away. The hair on the back of her neck rose.
“You dare to lie to me?” he demanded, his voice deceptively low.
It was the quietness that frightened her most. The stories of the horrors King Maximilian had visited upon his enemies were legion. He had battled for years to emerge the victor and assume the throne that was rightfully his, sparing no one.
Ruthless.
Pitiless.
Unfeeling.
Those were a scant few of the whispers Tansy had heard about him.
“I would never presume to lie to you, Your Majesty,” she fibbed, head still bent, praying he would cease toying with her.
